


Freedom in Hue of Loneliness

by lyl_i_am



Category: Portrait de la jeune fille en feu | Portrait of a Lady on Fire (2019)
Genre: Companion piece to the movie, Epistolary, F/F, Héloïse POV, Letters to Heloise's sister, Story through Héloïse's gaze
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-24
Updated: 2020-06-11
Packaged: 2021-03-01 19:07:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 2,983
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23822062
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lyl_i_am/pseuds/lyl_i_am
Summary: And without any conscious intention on Héloïse's part, a series of letters took shape in which she unreservedly bared herself though passages of her brief yet fiery moments shared with Marianne. These one-sided correspondences confronts Héloïse’s evaluation of her fate, the dichotomy of freedom and liberation, the dualism in the muse and the artist’s gaze, and discovering love as both burden and gift, and as foundation for great art.
Relationships: Héloïse & Marianne (Portrait of a Lady on Fire), Héloïse/Marianne (Portrait of a Lady on Fire)
Comments: 20
Kudos: 49





	1. Passing On

September 16, 1770

Dear sister,

Death never is a wholly welcomed guest.

The thing about them is that one cannot simply shut them out or skip them; if one life is saved, another one is taken hence why it’s called _passing on_.

Perhaps the same can be said to _your_ fate which is now of course, _mine_. This fate that deprives us of freedom and selfdom—which like death, it does not end but is merely passed.

In death, you gained your freedom and in turn, sentenced me to lose mine. Yet in a true fashion of passing on, I wonder if you ever paused to ponder, among the many incomprehensible anomalies of life as a woman, that this freedom we both seek in this forsaken island is in fact the very same freedom that mother wishes to abandon and attain in Milan.

Oh the strange cycle of women’s penitentiary!

Your letter brought me mixed comfort and desolation. I cannot state the exact musings that thought it fitting to compose a response; for what purpose I do not yet know, perchance grief? Or perhaps to enlighten you of what came about the fate you have bequeath me with? For now, that is all I can do. I do not curse you nor hate you for your deliberate passings; I do, however, wish you have placed a greater confidence in me rather than confessing through a belated letter of apology.

With that said, I too, am sorry. 

I cannot say I do not understand—things are not all so tangible and sayable as people would usually have us believe. Shall I then say that I longed with an equal earnest and steadfast desire for the moment of my own calculated untimely demise? I did, perhaps still do; although presently this fragile spirit clings to its sullen tenement for many weeks and irksome moments until my tortured nerves mastered over my mind and grew furious in solitude like an oppressed raging sea.

You see, mother have little to no regard about passing moments and wasted no time in pressing on with her prospective arrangements. I very much doubt your remains frosted yet, but in any case, my very own imprisonment began at your very end, marooned to this incorrigible domicile. Since then, I have made up my mind—if freedom was not in my choice, then in defiance I shall secure it.

I will not have my person and my likeness captured and bartered off for someone else’s freedom.

I shall not be painted.

.  
.  
.


	2. Transaction of Indifference

October 1, 1770

Dear sister,

Men never are a wholly welcomed guest either.

It has been weeks long since I treaded the grounds outside of these bleak walls; I mused the long unwearied hours with the recollections of our earliest years well connected within the cracks on the ceiling and the hollow steps of these halls; my prison, fittingly, was now barren and decrepit like well-worn shoes whose paces outgrown time. Even at the earliest sign of autumn crisp, this ignoble abode does not bode well for two nobles at odds with relations that had always ill-weathered storms and winter’s frost.

Customarily, the Comtesse’ approach was of stern behest and mine was of stoic protest. Suffice to say, that alone was to become of our constant in this persistent contest.

The wretchedness of our situation was only amplified by the arrival of my supposed captor; a man with stout ruddy face and whose appearance to a casual observer bespoke him less of a boring painter but more of a boorish peddler. And along he brought in his cache, the undue and morbid reality of my world.

To concede and conceive the true nature of this transaction of indifference, all parties involved named their price—the peddler painter with a handsome sum, the Comtesse with a hopeful portrait as passage to Milan, and I, wagered my stakes to a promised outdoor walks to whet my appetite for freedom. 

Thus we began the sitting. The man was shorter in stature, neither robust nor remarkable; save for the hideous mousy moustache, his grey hairs, combined with the lines on his forehead, records a history of prime years gone by. He set about his shop in a principled manner, displaying the little trinkets he moored across the harbour and once the task was completed, he looked on beyond his goods and onto me. Here I remarked the singularity of his expression which reigned upon his face—it was vacant, murky and held an apathetic countenance as if appraising one of his wares, just another object. I at first heed it no mind, however it seemed rather strange to me that although I was the subject of the room and sat at the very midst of it, he paid me no manner of attention that warranted this notion; he seemed utterly unconscious of my presence yet groveled his utmost devotion to his sole customer, the Comtesse.

And this here is where it began, our open market of unspoken hostility.

Most days he painted with haste and haughty strokes, glancing at me now and then without really seeing. He fretted about in his stool in relentless consternation; grumbling with impatience about everything: my pose, demeanor or expression, to the harsh daylight or the lack thereof, the absent curtains or perhaps the room’s utter sparseness all the while wriggling his moustache in annoyance like two pitiful mice clinging to dear life upon his lips.

Oh that sight alone ought to really vex me so, but alas I found them so deplorably hysterical!

I seldom bothered to care to hide my ill-humour and snide remarks and went so far as to mutter the imaginary shrieks and helpless cries of directions between the two mice, trembling as they feebly grab onto a raft, shipwrecked. Of course I am, for the most part, was unabashedly mocking him, and he for the most part, while dull in his gaze was not deaf to sarcasm and was indisputably aware. As I imagined, if there was anything we had in common then, it was likely our mutual and obvious disdain for the other.

Yet let me not be misapprehended; when it was clear to me, already after three days of sitting, that I was not to receive at least a portion of my price until the painter rendered his goods, I cashed in with a not so silent dissent and boycotted the ordeal entirely.

And I did so by beholding a great spectacle and made bold to confine myself in my room and refused meals.

If I were to be imprisoned in this house, then why should it not be so on my terms?

To hell with the silent protest!

.  
.  
.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To hell with extended metaphors!  
> No I kid, I love them. XD
> 
> Pardon the grammatical nonsense and I hope you enjoy the read.


	3. Second-Hand Loneliness

October 8, 1770

Dear sister,

Loneliness never is a wholly welcomed guest either.

The thing about them is that one may choose to spend their days in solitude, however, one cannot simply shut out loneliness when it knocks on their door.

I suppose loneliness is a relentless busybody that follows us everywhere. I have felt it all before, and these days, I certainly am living the profound loneliness you must have felt then. Let me say only, that I at length recognized your resolve; the loss of freedom and self-autonomy is akin to a death sentence and by God, death never looked so seductive!

My confinement consisted of mere idleness, poring over old books and exerting fruitless attempt at humming a hymn from recollections. When those usual diversions became tiresome, I took to entertaining myself with staring out the window and nearly almost immediately my anger would boil all over and be consumed with vehement desire to run; to run out of that open field with this solitude in tow and wail out the loneliness amongst the raging tide like a chorus of solidarity for the lonesome. And during the night while I lay on my bed, I would find myself cycling through anger, hopelessness, exhaustion, and finally resignation until sleep does come.

With my long hours of solitary meditations and wonderings, these follies led me to deduce one cohesive conclusion: loneliness is a woman, lugging around the heavy burden of living in a world created for men where she must toil and endure just to exist. And then one day, as if exhausted with both physical and emotional deliberations, I opened the door, with a child-like pertinacity or perchance with a faint hope of alleviating sorrow, and gave way to a proposed truce. As mother stood before me in my bitter lamenting and desolate condition, I questioned: _is loneliness inherent in us or is it inherited to us?_

Persuaded of temporary reconciliation, I felt my spirit rekindle a faint delight with the thoughts of possibilities beyond these walls; and although I knew the odds are not yet in my favour, or perhaps ever, I allowed myself a little delusion of freedom in the vigil of a walking companion.

Soon the period of my supposed liberator’s arrival was impending and my notice was continually attracted to looking at the long lines of the shore from my window. The sky was dimming fast when I observed, shrouded by dusk’s draperies, the imperceptible figure approaching and disappearing from my periphery. A flash of curiosity took hold of me and as I slinked back to my chair to write these passages, I remained for some time breathless and motionless, with my eyes on the paper and my ears perked in rapt attention—she knocked on the front door. The signal of her arrival rang loud inside the gloomy castle where it soon joined Sophie’s footsteps hurrying to; and as I heard the door shut with a dull thud, I prayed to the heavens, with my heart pumped, please let this lady be anything or anyone _but loneliness_.

_._

_._

_._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As you can see the previous chapter deviated from canon, Heloise as we know from the movie did not sit at all for the previous painter, in fact he never even saw her face! And although I took the creative liberty and explored the idea of a bartered compromise between Heloise and the Comtesse, I also wanted to tackle the story as it was originally written. I fancied the idea of deleting the previous chapter and writing an alternative, but thought better of it and just continued. I know it doesn’t influence the rest of the story much and while I’m using this as writing exercises, I hope you’ll afford me some allowances with this write up. 
> 
> As usual, thank you and enjoy. :)
> 
> "Loneliness is female." - I think Celine said this in an interview, I can't remember but I remembered that this phrase struck hard!
> 
> "I'm not a feminist because I'm a woman, I'm a feminist because I want to exist." - taken from Adele Haenel herself. God I love her and her beautiful mind!


	4. Walking Curiosity

October 9, 1770

Dear sister,

I grant at least, that there were two distinct curiosities in my mind since I awoke at sunrise—one, principally, was the guided footsteps that laid a hopeful proximity beyond my memories and the other, was the guide’s footsteps that peered with hopeful proximity beyond my comprehension.

Whilst I ponder, what I shall tell, perhaps for simplicity, is how these curiosities came about. I shall begin from the day before, where I passed the chief of the night through cacophony of unfamiliar meanderings of the guest’s late night wanderings. I had heard the noise, however faint, a single note—a twang of a harpsichord string carried from the adjacent hall; and as I strained my ears to detect its exact whereabouts, many minutes elapsed before I realized that I had dozed off and dreamt of light footsteps walking me to a serene slumber. When morning came, some hues of life gleamed in my eyes, as mother had remarked through breakfast, and I, immediately after, requested to summon my companion and waited with subdued impatience by the front door.

I was first acquainted with Marianne through the bold and equal cadence of her footsteps.

Upon levelled grounds, I made bold to thrust myself out into the crisp, misty morning and trudged along the path of autumn leaves with conviction and rising urgency. I felt a great swell of amazement at nature’s shocking contrast of green and gold foliage and quickened my pace to the edge of the clearing while my companion reminded her presence with echoed strides. With little difficulty we made our way further and I heard, before I saw, the bellowing of the wind and the sea lapping upon the cliffs. An indefinite sense of awe which at first sight of the magnanimous yet unpredictable waves had taken a hold of my mind and I know not what sudden self-possession came over my spirit as I gave chase to the ocean’s summons closer to the shore.

Ah what an exhilarating rush!

For a brief moment I was taken back to our childhood days—racing against one another, dashing madly towards the bay where we imagined a great big ship waiting for us to board and join the pirates onto endless fascinating adventures!

We’ve dreamt of that for years, didn’t we? Oh how I miss those simpler times!

And as I halted with ragged elated breath, I had taken a cursory glance behind to conceive the horror of my companion who had assumed the chase as my hurrying onwards to some aspect of death. Here I confess that her supposition apparently so evident in my despair does have probability in its favour; however, I chose to endeavour the thought some other time for today, I didn’t feel like dying for once.

And ever so slowly, my feet led me nearer to the tide that the cliffs keeps at bay and as I gazed upon the jagged rocks and beyond the azure horizon, I awaken some of our fondest memories and washed away the small grudge I held upon your impulsive journey without me. The warring of wind and ocean mist dwarfed my whirring thoughts into trivial bliss and thus I began to reconcile the amiss of your dismiss. My seaside euphoria lasted only for so long until curiosity’s terrific summit of a wave consumed me from these meditations and compelled me to acknowledge Marianne, whose strangeness I found in the vividness of the expressions of her eyes.

Have you seen curiosity with a glisten in her eyes, luminous and liquid, like the colours of almond hazel that struggled to remain quiet in the disquiet? There was a peculiar character about her observations which struck me as rendering an unknown inquisition—like a kind of conversation that rages in the heart. Casting my eyes directly, I beheld mine with equal ferocity and we fell upon impotent courtesy whose stares wrestled with strained scrutiny.

With no means of calculating time other than the intensity and waning of the sun, we made our way back and filed through the door just as before; as the door shut, we left behind the striking daylight and the whispering hiss of the sea and traipsed the brief flight of stairs with lightness in footfall and heaviness in demeanor. Unlike the sun, the intensity of her mute inquiry didn’t wane and I, left with new preoccupations like mind struggling with mind, was plagued by a sudden wind of curiosity.

If I cannot read her mind in plain sight, then in her books I shall read what passes through it.

.

.

.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Literary device challenge: double entendre, a parallel delayed introduction of Marianne, title as theme, contrasting Marianne’s curious looks with Heloise’s curious listening.
> 
> Sorry, but I think my tenses kinda jumbled all up in there. 
> 
> Hope you enjoy the read and let me know what y'all think.


	5. Curiosity’s Vigil

October 10, 1770

Dear sister,

So that my intrigue and sentiment might be rightfully understood, I must presently speculate the curiosity of my companion’s vigil.

Walking alongside turmoil and seaside ill-humour, Marianne walked quietly behind with deafening observations. The rolling winds and crashing waves shrieked unduly—my ears whirring in a flurry—yet it was the way her mouth opened ever so slightly, did I hear her lips queried loudly.

_What is she looking at?_

At once, I furled my sails ahead in dismiss, cape billowing past her gaze and I set my visions upon the sea where the waves came to me with unruly pride of sheer magnitude, elegant yet firm, swirling me in and away with my wandering musings and forgotten recollections. And yet, in an ebbing distance, sensing its sights did I found a buoy back ashore and I, once again, was arrested to glance behind; it was the whirl of azure, cerulean and a speck of grey—a little bizarre was this tiny ocean—within her wide curious eyes that had the breeze in my mind shifted.

_What is she searching for?_

She strode along with insatiable and unblinking eyes as if to bore deep within my buried thoughts; and I looked away to keep them at bay and resumed my reflections upon the shore where the tongues of foams and lips of ocean mist lapped the finest gold of sand. I sat and folded my hands over my lap, the excess hem pooled around my knees. At a distance of an arm, learning the choreography, she mirrored the gestures and continued to peer, unabashed, with those studious pupils.

As the tide rolled away, waves upon waves, my piqued interest fought to stay afloat and yet indifference was the first to rise, breaking above water and out of my mouth. I uttered my _swimming_ thoughts. With a tug of linen sheath of silence, she heeded with an airy caution, ‘on a calmer day,’— _if the calmer day does come—_ and I relented. Testing the wind once more, I pondered the remaining days under her vigil— _in a weeks’ time_ —she said was the delay of my cursed days.

A brief pause breezed through and then I remarked the quiet unease of her demeanour that surfaced upon the pallid and lofty contour of her face framed within the raven-black curling tresses; she regarded me with those large keen eyes and propelled the momentum of our conversation back to my earlier confessed desire. As she grew more composed, the steadier her gaze asserted; she narrowed her eyes and induced her concerns to which I vouchsafed with a quipped of ‘I don’t know’ and bared my lips so as to not seem unwilling to hold the conversation. And while it is difficult to fault the earnest in her reasoning, I humoured to elaborate that my ignorance stemmed not from unlearned mechanics of my desires, but simply from the absence of the endeavour. When I observed this last, her lips pursed and its corners curled at the end, a tiniest mirth evident in her face and a sight I scarcely refrained to tear away from.

As her curious looks flitted away, with my hands clasped across my lap, I relished on her slight astonished of my afterthoughts and imposed my amusement beyond the sea.

In my mind’s eye, I saw her wandering stares as it grazed the outlines of my features and silently I wondered,

W _hen you look, what do you see?_

_._

_._

_._


End file.
